


out of my head

by Nonymos



Series: drawn into something [3]
Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: 'Twas Polyamory All Along!, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Other, POV Outsider, failed surgery as a background event, featuring: eddie's resignation to being bullied by the universe, featuring: the group chat, no progressive metal fans were harmed in the making of this fic, suspicions of cheating, various characters trying to drown various awkward moments in various drinks, with various results
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-25 22:13:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17733617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: A little POV Outsider ficlet, because I love POV outsider in general but I love it even more when the characters being Observed From The Outside are all complete fuckin'weirdos.:D





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [chyba mi odbiło](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18238508) by [tehanu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehanu/pseuds/tehanu)



> A little POV Outsider ficlet, because I love POV outsider in general but I love it even more when the characters being Observed From The Outside are all complete fuckin' _weirdos._ :D

 

 

 

 

“Dr. Lewis,” Stacy tries.

Lewis is standing alone at the post-op sink. The water’s guzzling out, spattering noisily on the tile, but he’s not washing his hands. He hasn’t even removed his bloodied gloves.

It’s not the first time someone’s died on their surgery table. Weirdly enough, the thing Stacy hates the most about it is the noise—the long, wailing beep of the heart monitor signaling complete cardiac arrest. It just sounds so fucking _cliché._ And it rings in her ears for hours afterwards, like tinnitus.

No matter how awful she feels, though, she knows that Lewis’ very presence is shielding her from the worst of it. If her mind drifts to a dark place, she can always tell herself that it wasn’t her fault, wasn’t her responsibility. She wasn’t the one making the calls. Lewis answers to nobody; which means he’s got to answer to everybody whenever he fails.

“Dr. Lewis,” she says again—and then, louder: _“Daniel,”_ and this time he looks up at her.

“Oh, Stacy, hi. Didn’t hear you there.” He glances back down at his gloves and comments, “They’re so red.”

“You should take them off.”

“Yes.” He does so, mindlessly, one after the other, with a practiced roll of the wrist ending in a snap of latex. “Do you know I used to be colorblind?”

“Used to be?”

“It’s a long story,” he says, throwing his gloves away. “I still get surprised at how vivid color can be.”

Lewis’s cheer famously annoys hospital personnel, and Stacy’s no exception. But seeing him like this—distant and off-balance—is much worse. Not to mention hearing him tell pointless, borderline nonsensical stories.

Stacy watches him wash his hands. They’re slightly shaking.

“You shouldn’t drive home tonight,” she says. “Can Anne come get you?”

“She’s held up at work. No point bothering her.” He musters one of his usual smiles, though it lacks conviction. “Don’t worry about me, Stace. You take care of yourself.”

“I can multitask,” Stacy says dryly. “Isn’t there anyone else you can call?”

She regrets her question half-way through asking it. She knows very well that Lewis doesn’t have any friends; everyone at the hospital knows.

It’s actually part of why they give him a wide berth—the way people avoid a completely empty car in an otherwise packed train. Other people must’ve had a _reason_ not to get in, right? There must be something _wrong_ with that one. Of course he’s the head surgeon, and objectively handsome, so most of the new female nurses and doctors go for him—not yet attuned to the rest of the staff, hardly believing their luck nabbing an oh-so-eligible bachelor. Then they invariably break up with him and get welcomed among the veterans like post-hazing sorority sisters. _You fell for it, girl, we all did at first. Isn’t he so weird?_ Nothing like Lewis gossip to liven up the break room. God knows they all need to let off steam.

Stacy herself didn’t date the man—only because she was perceptive enough to pick up on the hospital-wide Lewis avoidance from the start. She followed suit, keeping her distances, since humans are herd animals no matter what they do. _There must be something wrong with that one._

But being good at her job, she quickly rose through the ranks to become Lewis’ chief assistant. After spending a lot of time with him, she couldn’t help shifting from subconscious bullying to conscious pitying. It’s not Lewis’ fault. He does try. Much too hard, actually. At times she’s wondered whether he was on the spectrum, but that’s not her job to find out. Whatever he is, he’s the functioning type, anyway.

She went out on a limb setting him up with Anne—unsure whether she was really doing her friend a service. But Lewis couldn’t ever win, dating someone on the hospital staff; so he might as well put himself out there.

Stacy and Anne, being respectively a surgeon and a lawyer, haven’t found any time to sit down and chat in nearly a year; but, well, it’s _been_ nearly a year, and Lewis hasn’t gotten dumped yet, nor performed any dumping of his own. Stacy honestly hadn't expected to be so successful. If she really did manage to find _Daniel Lewis_ a soulmate, she should start a dating service on the side.

But right now Anne’s not available to come pick him up; and just because Lewis's got her doesn’t mean he’s got anyone else to count on. Stacy shouldn't have asked.

And then he surprises Stacy. “I suppose there _is_ someone else,” he says, like it’s just occurred to him. He dries his hands then gets his phone back from the sterile tray and calls someone he greets with "Eddie? Hi."

Stacy’s heard that name before. In fact, Lewis has put an entire surgery room on hold to take a call from this guy, so she’d be hard-pressed _not_ to remember.

After a short conversation, Lewis hangs up and smiles at her. “There, he’s coming to get me. Happy?”

He doesn’t look as wan as he did a moment ago. When he smiles like that, Stacy can’t help going back to the very first day she met him. He was already annoying her then, looking and acting so much like a Ken doll; but he was also so guileless, so _radiant_ she couldn’t help responding to it—which doubly annoyed her. Even now, after her whole joined-up-with-the-Lewis-embargo-and-then-came-back-from-it thing, he can still have that first-day effect on her. That man is like a beam of pure light: unbearable over long exposure, but dazzling in flashes.

“I’m waiting with you,” Stacy says, gruff. “When’s he getting here?”

“Shouldn’t be too long.” He smiles, again. “You really don’t have to, Stace. I’m okay.”

But she stays, and he doesn’t say anything else to make her go away. She’s aware that her worry for Lewis—who _is_ fully capable of taking care of himself—is an avoidance strategy so she won’t have to confront her own feelings. But as long as she _is_ aware of it, then voilà, it’s a coping technique.

They wait for a while. The hospital wing’s quiet. They don’t talk; they never do, in moments like these. They haven't lost a lot of people in over five years of practice; in fact, their numbers are objectively astounding considering they don’t exactly deal in minor surgery. But failure still slices to the bone. Stacy keeps reviewing the op in her head, keeps going back to the moment it all went south. There wasn’t anything to be done, she knows that.

“I’m going to get us coffee,” she says when she can’t stand sitting around with her thoughts anymore.

He doesn’t say anything, only nods, lost in thought as well. She walks away from him, in a silence so deep she can hear the buzz of the neon lights overhead. In his normal state, Dr. Lewis annoys her. She can’t wait for him to be back to it.

 

*

 

“Hi,” says a voice. “Um. Excuse me?”

Charlene doesn’t look up from her magazine. It’s past midnight; nobody’s got any business walking up to her desk if they’re not bleeding to death.

“Excuse me,” the voice says, louder.

It’s a man, hovering at the edge of her perception. Charlene flips a page. Ignoring people is a skill she’s been honing for years. She’s driven countless souls to just give up and sadly go sit on a plastic chair. Or stand meekly by her desk for minutes on end until she finally deigns to raise her gaze. If buddy boy thinks he’s getting her attention before she finishes reading her article, he’s got another thing coming.

_“HEY, LADY—”_

For a moment she sees too many teeth grossly distorting a human jaw, huge milky white eyes eating their way across a human forehead—but before she can even begin to scream, before she can even realize she’s screeched her chair away from him, her brain registers that no, nevermind, it’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s a normal man.

He’s looking at her with a little apologetic wrinkle between his brows. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Charlene angrily scoots back her chair towards the desk, with a couple of practiced hip thrusts. “What do you _want?”_

She usually uses less direct ways to tell people to fuck off, but her heart’s still hammering. By the look on the guy’s face, he was expecting her to _recognize_ him, which doesn’t improve Charlene’s mood any. “I’m… Dr. Lewis’s friend. We’ve already met twice.”

“Physical,” Charlene says, heart rate and annoyance levels returning to normal.

The tips of the man’s ears turn red, for some reason; he just nods.

“And _you’re_ the one who forced your way past the doors the day of the pile-up,” she goes on, suddenly connecting the dots. “Sir, are you aware the hospital could have sued you for those actions?”

“Oh, well—my ex’s a lawyer, so, you know,” he quips.

Charlene finds no man funny. She gives him another withering stare. He just stares back, for so long that she suddenly sees his eyes glaze white again.

She feels her own eyes widen; the visitor shakes his head like a dog out of water then hurriedly slinks off around her desk. “So—do you mind, can I go through? He’s waiting for me. I’ll find him, no problem. Thanks. Bye. You look great, by the way.”

She ought to stop him, but somehow she doesn’t manage to open her mouth until he’s gone.

 

*

 

Stacy watches the coffee splurt out of the machine. It seems to takes ages, like it’s black molasses, something gooey and slick.

When she comes back, holding two fuming cups, there’s a biker-looking dude giving Lewis the hug of his life.

She’s so surprised she just stops and watches. That… must be _Eddie,_ whoever he is. There’s some serious clinging going on here. She’s embarrassed to even signal herself, so she just stands there awkwardly, hoping they'll notice her. But they don’t.

It lasts for a good two minutes, then biker dude releases Lewis. “C’mon, Dan, let’s—let’s get you home, huh?”

“I’m fine, really,” Lewis says, still more subdued than usual. “Part of the job. I’m just a bit tired.”

“Right.” Awkward pat-shake on the shoulder; the guy looks a bit manic—like he’s got a lid on it, but still. “All the more reason to get you horizontal.”

“Well, now, that could be misconstrued, Eddie,” Lewis says with something like a normal smile.

The guy—Eddie—smiles back; it lights up his whole face, lines inverting into something playful and open. “Oh, are we _flirting_ now?”

“You started it.” Lewis is doing his best, but he’s visibly too exhausted to keep up fully with the banter. Eddie’s face pinches back into worry.

“Hey,” he says, “c’mere,” and brings Lewis down to kiss him on the cheek, in the same brusque, clumsily masculine manner. “Let’s go. There’s a cab waiting.”

Lewis follows him down the hallway, smiling again. “One day I’ll get to ride that bike with you.”

There’s a chuckle—“If _that’s_ your fantasy, I’ll be sure to oblige,” and they’re gone.

Stacy’s still standing there with a coffee in each hand, outraged for a reason she can’t quite grasp. Then her brain kicks back in and she realizes she just witnessed an act of cheating. Maybe. Probably. _Definitely._

Due to her very profession, Stacy’s been around loads and loads of straight boys. She’s often been surprised by the lengths of homoerotic playacting in which they were willing to engage. The ass-slapping was neverending at med school, sometimes devolving into groping that would otherwise have been grounds to sue for assault. And the gay chicken make-outs, dear _God._ For some it was probably actual homosexuality finding its only outlet.

Stacy can’t imagine Dr. Lewis either closeted or repressed. He’s so annoyingly in touch with himself. Which can only mean what she just saw was in earnest. Plus there’s the fact that she’s never known Lewis to have any close ones _but_ the women he was dating.

And now suddenly there’s this guy, out of nowhere. This guy for whom Lewis puts entire op rooms on hold.

Maybe it’s time she had lunch with Anne.

 

*

 

Ziggy got a brain scan.

He’d never done an MRI before; it was more impressive than he’d imagined it would be. The scan revealed a whole lot of nothing. Not, like, _literally_ nothing. His brain’s all there and accounted for, thanks. But no tumor or anything like that. Which, in a way, is a good thing. But also he would’ve liked a straightforward answer to the problem.

He got a recommendation for a shrink, but didn’t go, because when you know, you know. And he knows shrinks aren’t the answer here. He’d rather suspect drugs. Though of course he wasn’t high both times he had his hallucination. Well, maybe a little. But only on weed. You don’t hallucinate stuff on weed. Not freaky stuff like if you’ve done acid. Or LSD. Are they both the same thing? He can’t recall. It doesn’t matter. He hadn’t done either in a while, and he knows what he _saw._

The first time, he could’ve written it off, maybe. Trick of the light, wrinkling brain, something. But the _second_ time—he’d crossed the hall gathering his courage, maybe as an attempt to exorcise what he thought he remembered from last time. And behind the door…

_IT IS NOT TOO SAFE OUT THERE._

Ziggy was a Satanist in college. He’s into progressive metal now. For his monstrous neighbor to stick perfectly to his own aesthetic kinda feels like a personal insult. Maybe, just maybe, the whole thing’s just an elaborate prank by his ex-girlfriend who got “tired of his whole Marilyn Manson wannabe bullshit.”

Then again, maybe not.

So now Ziggy’s spying on his neighbor. He’s not gonna _confront_ him, that’d be moronic. But maybe if he can get evidence he can… go to the cops. Or the CIA. Or whichever shady fucks took over from SHIELD after the whole DC terrorist attack thing two years ago.

Speaking of the devil. Here comes Brock. Ziggy’s so attuned to his steps now, he could recognize them in his sleep.

He goes to the door, presses his eye to the spyhole and sees Brock fussing over a taller, neater dude, who looks pale and dazed in the hallway lights.

“Right over there,” Brock says, “hold on, lemme get out my keys—”

Ziggy blinks when he realizes Tall Neat Guy is going to _enter Brock’s apartment._

A cold sweat beads at his temples. Oh, God. He can’t let that happen. Can he? No, he can’t, he really can’t. But there’s no way to warn this guy without risking his own life. He remembers the eyes, the teeth, the oilslick skin. The deep, growly jeer, the maniacal grin. _IT IS NOT TOO SAFE OUT THERE._

The prodding tongue reaching out to his _face_ —

Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ but Ziggy can’t let Tall Neat Guy get devoured alive.

He presses so hard against the spyhole he nearly gives himself a black eye; and at the right moment—after Brock has opened the door and slipped inside, _just_ before Tall Neat Guy slips in after him—Ziggy crashes through his own door and grabs his arm.

“Come _on!”_ he hisses, dragging him back.

For a second the guy just lets it happen, stunned; but then he plants his heels and turns and calls, “Um—Eddie? Eddie!”

Unfortunately, Brock has only taken one step inside his apartment, so he’s immediately back out. “Hey—whoa, what’s going on here?”

“You back off,” Ziggy yells. Nothing to it, now he’s got to be brave, even though he’s _this_ close to actually, literally shitting his pants. “You back the fuck off, you hear me, or I swear I’m gonna—”

 _“Hey,”_ Brock repeats, taking a step forward so that Ziggy’s got no choice but to let go of Tall Neat Guy—he’s only human, he’s too fucking _scared_. “Enough, already. He’s havin’ a bad night to begin with, don’t make it worse. Just go back inside, all right? Whatever this is, sleep it off.”

“He’s going to _kill you,”_ Ziggy screams at Tall Neat Guy.

They both freeze.

Ziggy pushes through, manic. “Listen, just _listen,_ I know how this sounds, but—you gotta believe me, man, he’s a monster. Don’t go in there, just don’t, he’s going to _eat your face!”_

Now, he’s aware those aren’t exactly sane-passing statements. So he expects some disbelief, maybe wariness, perhaps laughter. He also half-expects Brock to maul them both to death.

Instead, Brock looks mortified. And Tall Neat Guy looks—endeared?

“I’m—I’m serious,” Ziggy insists, not too sure what’s happening anymore.

“Thank you so much,” Tall Neat Guy says, with staggering sincerity. “Excuse me, what’s your name?”

Ziggy nearly says _Ziggy,_ then decides he should maybe try not to appear like a complete whacko. “It’s… it’s David, man.”

“I’m Dan Lewis,” says Dan Lewis, shaking his hand. “And I think I know what’s going on here. You see, I’m a doctor—”

“I don’t do drugs, man,” Ziggy interrupts. “I mean, I _do,_ but not recently—”

“No, that’s not what I had in mind,” Dan says patiently. “Are you familiar with the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning?”

 

Ten minutes later, all three of them have a beer in hand, sitting on Ziggy's couch with a bowl full of cheese puffs on the coffee table, listening to Dan reading out loud from the carbon monoxide poisoning Wikipedia page. When he’s done, he moves on to a Twitter thread gathering various paranoia fits and demented hallucinations that were solved by simply airing out the victims’ apartments.

“And that’s why you should get a carbon monoxide detector,” Dan advises cheerfully, while Brock seemingly tries to drown himself in his beer.

“Yeah, that… yeah…” Ziggy looks at Brock. “I’m so sorry, dude. You must be fucking furious at me, fuck. _Freaky_ thing to accuse you of.”

“Freaky,” Brock agrees, still quite focused on his bottle.

Ziggy’s so relieved after weeks of terror that he’s definitely in the mood to love his neighbor, like, in a Jesus kind of way. “And I’m real sorry about the music,” he volunteers in a fit of gratitude. “Hell, I’ll buy headphones.”

“That’s—I’d actually really appreciate that,” Eddie says, rubbing his forehead.

 “You guys want another beer?”

“No, uh, Dan probably wants to crash. Right, Dan?”

“Well,” Dan begins.

“Oh, right—you said you guys had a bad day. What happened, man?”

Eddie closes his eyes and tries again to reach the bottom of his beer. Dan’s expression sobers. “Today’s surgery could have gone better,” he says simply.

“Man,” Ziggy replies, with feeling. “I know what that’s like.”

“Really,” Eddie says, dubious.

“Really?” Dan asks, earnest.

“Yeah, I—I ran over someone once.” Ziggy swallows. “Nothing I could do—dude just came out of nowhere. I had to go to court, with witnesses and shit, I was fully exonerated. But—fuck, it stays with you.” He looks at Eddie. “What about you, man? Ever kill someone?”

“Uh,” Eddie says.

“It’s okay, you can share. No one here's gonna judge y—” Ziggy suddenly blinks at the cheese puffs bowl. Only orange dust remains. _“Holy_ fuck. Who ate all of those?”

“Uhhh,” Eddie says, again. Then, sounding like he’s hoping he’ll find another way to finish his sentence before he gets there: “I… guess… it was… me?”

“All of them? By yourself? In five minutes?”

“I WAS STARVING.”

Everyone goes still.

“Holy shit, man,” Ziggy chokes. “Holy shit. Your voice right now. Did anyone else hear that? Holy _shit.”_ He stops. _“That_ was a hallucination, right? Oh, fuck, I’m getting carbon poisoned right now. You’re _all_ getting carbon poisoned! We gotta get out of this place, man!”

“But it’s 2am,” Dan says sensibly. “Where are you going to sleep?”

Eddie finishes his beer in one mournful swig.

 

So now Ziggy’s staying the night on Eddie Brock’s couch, when only an hour ago you couldn’t have fucking paid him to step foot inside this apartment. It’s remarkably tidy and clean, and if there are three chicken carcasses piled up in the trash, well, he’s not going to point it out.

“Hey, sorry for imposing,” he says before they all go to bed.

“Oh, you know,” Eddie mumbles. “Since we established you have carbon monoxide poisoning, that was our only logical option. And we did. Establish that. So.”

“What about Lewis, though? Like, I can sleep on the floor, no problem.”

“Thanks, man, it’s okay. He’ll sleep in my bed.”

“No homo,” Ziggy says automatically.

Eddie blinks at him. “No, actually, kinda.”

“Oh,” Ziggy fumbles. “Oh, fuck, man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—hey, you know, my nephew’s gay.”

Eddie looks like he bitterly regrets saying anything. “It’s okay.”

“And like, congrats on finding yourself,” Ziggy says, because hadn’t Brock just broken up with a girl when he moved in? “It—it gets better, man.”

“Sure,” Eddie says, now looking like someone’s laughing at him but he’s too dead inside to react. “Night, Dave.”

“Night,” Ziggy echoes despondently. Man, he always has to put his foot in it. Shame the monster isn’t real after all—being eaten alive would be better than feeling like this much of a dick.

 

*

 

 _Will be getting in a bit later than usual,_ Lewis texts the next day _. Call me if there’s an emergency!_

Stacy’s furious. Not because she’s running the place on her own; on the contrary, she’s always eager for more responsibility, and everyone’s more relaxed when Lewis isn’t around, anyway. But this—he clearly slept over at Eddie’s place, and now he’s all but bragging about it. What an _ass._

Her vague plans to text Anne on her lunch break coalesce abruptly into opportunity when she spots her at the hospital cafeteria.

“Anne,” she calls, and Anne looks up and smiles and says, “Stacy!” and for the first five minutes it’s all _it’s been so long!_ and _so what are you doing these days?_ and _do you have a minute to chat?_ Then, after she’s sat down with her fourth coffee of the day, Stacy mentally braces herself.

“So,” she says—a cautious sideways approach, “what brings you here today?”

“Oh, I’m meeting Dan,” Anne says, unsurprisingly. “He told me about yesterday. Are you all right?”

“It’s the job,” Stacy eludes. She doesn’t want to think about the failed surgery any more. She’s got to let it have its place. Learn everything she can from it, and move on. It’s not anything she would discuss with non-medical personnel. It’s not anything she would say out loud, really.

The other stuff, though. That she can and _will_ discuss, because friends don’t let friends get cheated on. The timing’s not great, but she doesn’t care. It’ll be Anne’s job to choose where and when to confront Lewis about it.

“So, Lewis, though. Everything all right with you two?” she begins.

“Oh, yes. Couldn’t be better.” Anne looks so happy. “I owe you a drink for this one, Stace. Several drinks.”

“Yeah, well.” It seems this week is for bursting bubbles. “Save the drinking for when we’ll really need it, counselor.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Stacy sighs. She doesn’t know how to say this, so she does what she usually does—barrel through. “He’s cheating on you, Anne. I’m sorry.”

Anne looks at her without moving for a full five seconds.

Then her eyebrow partially curves up. “Cheating on me how?”

It’s an odd question. One Stacy actually can answer, though. “With a guy.”

Anne’s almost smiling. “What kind of guy?”

“I don’t know. Some biker-looking guy. Eddie something.”

Now Anne’s visibly biting the inside of her cheek. “Eddie’s a friend, Stace.”

“Lewis spent the night at his place,” Stacy says, losing patience. “And I saw them kiss!”

Anne looks ecstatic. “On the _mouth?”_

Now it’s Stacy’s turn to stare at her. “No, but—but they were talking about fantasies, and—hold up, what the hell kind of question is this?”

“Refresh my memory, Stace,” Anne asks, sipping her coffee. “How come you never met my ex?”

“Uh, because we both have insane schedules? He was that dude from the Brock Report, right? Low-key famous?”

 _“Eddie_ Brock, yes.”

Before Stacy can react, a cheerful voice rises behind her.

“Aw, you guys talking about me?”

“Hey, Eddie,” Anne smiles. “Hi, honey.”

Stacy abruptly sits up straight; it’s one thing to be a good friend, it’s another to badmouth your boss while he’s _standing behind you._ Lewis leans forward, brushing past Stacy’s shoulder, and kisses Anne hello.

Then Brock leans in and kisses her too. On the cheek. After that, they all sit together at the table; the first thing Anne does is grab Dan’s hand. “How’re you feeling, hon?”

“Well,” he says—but before he can go any further, Brock’s getting up again.

“I think I’m going to buy us all drinks,” he says, nodding at Stacy. “Wanna come with? Give them a minute?”

Whatever else is going on here, Stacy can recognize the wisdom of that decision. She gets up and follows him out of the cafeteria.

He seems like a fairly decent guy, which is kind of a surprise; just chats with her pleasantly all the way to the drinks machine, listening more than he’s talking. She watches him put coins into the slot until she realizes she has no reason to be tactful with him.

“So what, you’re together?” she asks abruptly. “All three of you?”

Brock’s faltering hand sends a few dimes scattering onto the floor.

“Uh,” he says, crouching to pick them up. The tip of his ears are going red. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. Broadly.” He straightens up, starts putting in the coins again. “I try to give them their space, though. Y’know? Don’t want to mess up what they have on their own.” Then he looks at her in alarm. “You’re not going to tell anyone here, are you? Probably shouldn't get around the hospital.”

 _This_ guy’s a reporter? Stacy thinks.

But he looks so worried for Lewis she can’t quite be mean to him. “He’s my boss. I wouldn’t do that.” Then, because she’s not _that_ nice, “Are you sure you’re all right with that situation, man?”

Brock blinks at her. Stacy can see what Anne saw in him; with his fluffy hair, his ears sticking out a bit, his wide eyes—and his thick shoulders, his strong build; that guy’s a proper teddy bear. Makes you want to squeeze him tight. Maybe tight enough to pop the stuffing out of him, because tearing into things is always fun.

“I’m—not sure what you mean there,” he says after a weirdly long pause, like he was half-listening to another conversation.

“I _mean_ you’re Anne’s ex,” she snaps. “Look at you, getting them _drinks._ Giving them their _space._ Isn’t that a bit sad?”

It’s absolutely none of her business, and she’s being odiously rude. Fuck if she cares, though. _Someone’s_ got to say these things. Anne’s a steel-backed alpha, which is why she and Stacy get along so well; this poor guy seems almost too human in comparison. Primed to get eaten alive.

“I’m serious, you know,” she insists when Brock just stares at her. “Are you sure this is healthy?”

He huffs a laugh. “Man, you’re nosy.” It’s good-natured; he punches in the numbers for his drink. “Guess it _is_ a weird dynamic if you don’t have all the facts.”

“Which are?”

“I’m, uh, married,” Brock says as a can of cherry coke starts pushing out of its slot.

Stacy blinks at him.

“Anne and Dan, they’ve been amazing to me. To us. Don’t know where we’d be without them. So yeah, I like getting ‘em drinks when I can. Nothing wrong with that.” The can tumbles out and immediately gets stuck against the glass. “Aw, hell. There goes my cool speech.”

He crouches down and pushes his arm into the machine to try and reach it.

“You’re gonna get stuck,” Stacy tells him, because it’s easier than reacting to the other things he said.

“Aw, don’t be the reasonable one, be lookout instead,” he smiles, twisting to get his arm up in there. “Like, who’s that at the end of the hallway? Hospital cop?”

She turns to look, can’t see anyone, squints—then a loud noise makes her turn right back. Somehow, Brock got _five_ cans to fall out of the machine. They’re all cherry cokes.

Cherry cokes are on the topmost row.

“How the fuck did you do that?”

“Secret. My other half’s taught me that one, actually.” He stands up, looking pleased with himself, and hands over a can. “Here, for your silence.”

He gives her a cheeky grin, then he walks back to the cafeteria, leaving her standing there dumbfounded, and still kind of angry, and also kind of charmed, which only makes her angrier.

 

*

 

“Over here,” calls Dr. Lewis, waving.

Dora muffles a cough and tries to stand straight. She’s not _impressed,_ per se. Sure, Daniel Lewis’s the third youngest head surgeon in the entire history of the United States and holds the current record for best success rate. But Dora’s own resume blows him out of the water, considering she completely eradicated pancreatic cancer. Of course, the Life Foundation in general and Drake in particular took full credit for it—but still, she’s important enough in her field to get a job at the San Francisco hospital if she deigns to ask for it. She’s not a surgeon, she won’t be working in the same wing as Lewis; they’ll be distant colleagues at best. Though of course they’ll probably interact a lot more than they normally should, because of—

Oh, God, he’s here too. Dora avoids looking at him—at _them—_ and focuses on Anne instead. Bless her, she’s already up and drawing a chair. “Dora, hello,” she says warmly. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, good, I’m—I’m doing very good, thanks,” Dora says with a slightly shaky smile. She sits down and looks up and—yes, he’s still here. Deep breath.

“Hi, Eddie.”

He looks good. Healthy, happy. His leather jacket’s folded on an empty chair, his black sleeves are rolled up to show off his tattoos. With his bracelets, his mussed hair, he’s no different from his Brock Report days. It’s incredible to know there’s an alien lurking inside the body of that man, just sitting there in the middle of a busy cafeteria. Dora might even doubt herself if her own body wasn’t on such high alert.

“Hi. You okay?” Eddie asks with genuine concern. “Me and the ol’ ball-and-chain can go take a walk anytime, just say the word.” Then he rolls his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, V, _kidding.”_

She breathes in, then out again, and smiles. Everything’s easier with a smile. “I’m fine,” she says, almost speaking it into existence. “It’s you I came to see. All of you, really. Anne—how are you doing?”

“Good, good. It’s amazing that you work here now.”

“Well,” Dora says with a meaningful look at Lewis. “Helps to have a friend on the inside.”

“Please, your work speaks for itself,” Lewis says brightly. “And I _am_ very glad we have each other at hand—your expertise’s invaluable. I’ve learned a few things, myself, that might interest you a lot. We can swap alien tips.” His hand lands on Eddie’s bare forearm and squeezes it. “So I can use them on my favorite patient.”

Dora nods. “Absolutely! I’ve got tons of data for you from the Life Foundation. Of course, there’s a lot we didn’t have time to test—” She bites her tongue. “Oh, don’t—don’t take it the wrong way, Eddie, I don’t mean _you_ should be undergoing any testing.”

“I’m sure I could persuade Eddie to complete _some,”_ Lewis says cheerfully. “For science.” His hand’s still on Eddie’s forearm.

“Yeah, uh, sure, we’ll—we’ll see,” Eddie mumbles, and takes a deep swig of his cherry coke.

Feeling like she’s missing something, Dora looks at Anne, hoping she’ll help her read the vibe; but Anne herself is very much focused on her cafeteria green beans.

“How are—how are _you_ doing, Doc?” Eddie asks with what sounds like a mighty effort. “Your health?”

“I’m fine,” Dora says quickly. She had a brush with total kidney failure and her liver’s still regrowing, but she can walk. She can work. She’s _fine._

“You know,” Anne says quietly, still poking her green beans, “Dan had a hemorrhagic stroke a month ago.”

Dora looks at her, then at him. “My God,” she says, confused again, because Dr. Lewis doesn’t _look_ severely disabled. Or dead. “I hope it… wasn’t too serious?”

“It was,” Dr. Lewis says simply. “I’m extremely lucky Eddie and Venom were there.”

“ANNE,” Eddie says—well, his mouth is moving, but—“ARE YOU SUGGESTING WE DO THIS FOR HER?”

“Suggesting is a strong word,” Anne says mildly. “I’m putting it out there. I’m not sure she’d be keen on trying.” She gives a meaningful glance. “Dora?”

Dora’s stuck.

“Dora?”

Dora suddenly realizes that Eddie hasn’t been eating his own fries: black tendrils sneaking out of his rolled-up sleeve are eating them _for_ him. When someone happens to walk by their table, they quickly wrap around his wrist, mimicking leather bracelets.

“Dr. Skirth?” Eddie asks quietly.

“Yes,” she breathes all at once. “Yes, I mean—I mean _no._ No, I don’t think I’d want… _Venom…_ to help. Thanks—thank you for the offer, though.” She stares at Dr. Lewis, a tad wildly. “You… you had it _inside_ you?”

“Inside my brain, yes. Do you know what’s _fascinating?”_ —and he launches into a story about colorblindness, which _is_ fascinating, yet Dora only half-listens. Her thoughts are running ahead and away from her. Eddie was one thing. An outlier in a world of failed experiments. But if the same alien that destroyed dozens of random patients could sneak in and out of a random man, causing more good than harm—then Drake really was wholly wrong. Of course he was. Why would anyone try to achieve symbiosis between unwilling parties? That’s a contradiction in the terms…

Dr. Lewis is done talking. Dora’s got to say something, so she nods. “Wow. You _were_ lucky they were around.”

“I wish they had been yesterday, too.” He offers his hand to the tendrils absorbing Eddie’s fries. A few of them come wrap around his fingers, friendly. “You probably could’ve saved my patient, bud.”

This is disarming. Not just because Dora’s still fighting her flight reflex seeing the alien _right there on the table._ Her mind’s still swarming with possibilities. Precise surgery—organ regeneration—even a surgeon as skilled as Dr. Lewis can’t always save everyone, as he just reminded her right now. Symbiosis with the klyntar might actually be incredibly beneficial for humanity. If only there was a way to ensure the bonded pairs wouldn’t just go around committing mass murder.

“Chocolate,” Dora says, which isn’t quite a non sequitur. “You—is it working? Eddie? Chocolate and cheese? For the phenethylamine?”

“Oh—yes.” Eddie sounds like himself again. “Yeah, works great. Thanks, Doc. Was a relief to stop being so hungry all the time.”

“And you don’t need to eat people,” Dora quips. “That’s a relief too, right?”

“Uh,” he says.

“Dora, don’t you want anything to eat?” Anne suddenly asks. “Dan has the afternoon full. We won’t be able to stay for much longer.”

“Oh—sure, I’ll go get some fries,” Dora says, blinking. “Maybe something to drink—I’ll be right back.”

Getting up from the table to go get a tray, she can’t quite remember what they were just talking about. That’s fine—if it was important, it’ll come back to her.

When she returns, Eddie offers her a cherry coke.

 

*

 

Eddie Brock’s here again. Wonderful. Why doesn’t he just take up residence in one of their inpatient rooms while he’s at it? Charlene’s never _liked_ people with tattoos, anyway. They’re such blatant signals of immaturity. _And_ Brock’s turning Lewis up to eleven, which is probably his worst offense. The head surgeon’s just killed a patient, you’d think he’d take it down a notch. But no, his little friend’s here, and his girlfriend, too. So he’s back to his sunshine mood, as unshakeable as usual. If you’re asking her, well, that just ain’t decent.

“Charlene, hi,” Lewis says as he passes by her counter, walking out his visitors.

“Dr. Lewis, hello,” she says with her sweetest smile. She drops it as soon as they've turned their backs to her.

Stacy wanders close to Charlene’s desk, which is odd in and of itself. Stacy never usually _wanders;_ she strides in an overly determined way, making her ponytail bounce—which annihilates the intended effect, in Charlene’s opinion.

She’s Lewis’ protégé, so Charlene smiles at her as well. “Something wrong, Dr. Hill?”

“What? Oh.” She was looking at Lewis, Brock and Weying. Still is, actually. “Nothing."

Charlene leans forward. “I never could stand those entitled types.”

Stacy’s gaze refocuses on her. “I’m sorry?”

“Eddie Brock.” Charlene sniffs, short and disdainful. It’s a very practiced kind of sniff. “Do you know, _he’s_ the man who broke into the emergency room the day of the pile-up.”

Stacy only lifts an eyebrow to indicate interest.

“To be honest, I’m surprised Dr. Lewis allows him around the hospital after pulling _that_ kind of stunt,” Charlene goes on, encouraged. “But I guess the head surgeon’s allowed to play favorites.”

“Brock seems like a nice guy,” Stacy says brusquely.

Sensing resistance, Charlene circles back to everyone’s preferred target. “You’re the one who set up Dr. Lewis with his new girlfriend, right? How is she holding up?”

“Fine,” is all Stacy replies. She leaves with her usual mannish stride back in full force.

Not even a goodbye, Charlene notes, and lifts her eyebrows to herself. If _she’s_ ever going to find a man, Dr. Hill could definitely stand to improve her manners.

 

*

 

“Hey,” Anne says, smiling. “Sorry we didn’t have more time at lunch. I should’ve told you we were meeting Dr. Skirth, too.”

“I’m here now,” Stacy answers, sidling into the booth. “What’re you drinking?”

“Mimosa. Can you believe we’re seeing each other twice in one day?”

“Stars have aligned, I guess.” She clears her throat. “Sorry, by the way. About lunch.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry! You were being such a good friend.” Anne lifts her mimosa. “I’m paying tonight, you know. I wasn’t kidding when I said I owed you a few drinks.”

“So… you really like Daniel.” It’s truly unheard-of, as far as Dr. Lewis is concerned.

“I love him,” Anne says, simply.

“But you’re still fucking your ex.”

Anne lifts an eyebrow. She's always been very cool under pressure; goes with the job, probably. Stacy is equally cool and does the eyebrow thing right back.

“Did you sit Dan down to tell him about it?" Anne asks, completely deadpan. "I suppose we _are_ both your friends, so your friendly duty also extends to—”

“I know there’s something going on between the three of you—and you _know_ I know, because you nearly told me at lunch, so cut it out,” Stacy interrupts. Then she amends, “The four of you.”

Anne chokes on her mimosa, all coolness suddenly gone. Stacy had never seen anyone actually choke on their drink outside of a movie.

“Excuse me,” Anne says, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, _“four?”_

“Yeah? Your ex is married?” Stacy says in disbelief. “He didn’t _tell_ you?”

Anne gapes at her. Then she starts laughing like crazy.

 _“What,”_ Stacy says.

“Married? He told you he was _married?_ Oh my God.”

“He’s not?” Stacy feels betrayed, which is absurd, but—Eddie Brock really did seem like a nice guy, with his friendly smile, his easygoing charm. Was he mocking her this whole time?

“No, he is,” Anne reassures her.

Stacy’s getting whiplash.

“I just—didn’t imagine he’d put it so bluntly,” Anne goes on. That doesn’t make any _sense;_ Anne waves a hand as if to say she’s aware and they should just breeze past that. “Did he say anything about his—partner?”

“Only that she was in on what you’re all doing.”

“It’s a he,” Anne says at once, then frowns. “I think.”

“You _think?”_

“They’re, uh, quite androgynous.” She stops the waiter when he walks past their booth. “Are you drinking anything?”

“Black Russian,” Stacy says, because since she already can’t understand anything to this conversation, she might as well get drunk. _“Are_ you fucking both of them?”

“Not at the same time,” Anne answers. Then, musingly: “Yet.”

It takes Stacy a minute to realize what she feels is envy. Which is by far the most _stupid_ thing she’s experienced this week. But—she remembers Eddie at the vending machine, grinning at her after his cherry coke stunt, and Lewis—well, she doesn’t need to circle back through everything she thinks of Daniel Lewis. She does it twelve times a day already.

She _knows_ she’d get exasperated dating him. From what she knows of Eddie Brock back when she only knew him as _Anne's ex_ , she wouldn’t enjoy dating _him,_ either. And she certainly doesn't think she'd enjoy dating any two people at once. But on _paper—_ it looks _nice_ on paper. Fuck, the sheer bragging rights.

“You sure you’re not biting off more than you can chew here, counselor?”

Anne cracks a grin. “I’d forgotten what a bitch you could be.”

“It’s my most winsome trait,” Stacy says dryly. “Seriously, this is a bit wild by your standards.”

“You,” Anne says emphatically, “have _no idea_.” Then her smile widens; Stacy’s never seen her look so happy. “Guess I’m done being standard.”

Just then, the waiter delivers Stacy an ink-black cocktail. She raises the sloshing glass. "Guess we can drink to that."

 

*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed this little ficlet! :D Next we're moving into a multi-chaptered fic, which will feature enthusiastic vivisection, terrible life choices, and Marvel cameos.
> 
> (Second chapter here is the transcript of the group chat convo at the end, just in case!)
> 
>  [LOOK AT THESE WONDERFUL ARTS BY MONCUBE!!!](http://moncubetwoo.tumblr.com/post/182939425732/1-wait-wait-dan-inches-closer-speaking)
> 
> Funny story about Stacy-the-assistant-surgeon: I picked her first and last names completely at random. Then I googled "Stacy Hill Marvel" for funsies and... she's an Iron Fist character?? And she's a _nurse_??? (I've never watched Iron Fist in my life.) That's... fandom... for you, I guess?


	2. Group chat convo transcript

[Group chat convo transcript. Group chat name: squid squad :chocolate bar emoji:]

Anne: Pay attention when you’re in the workplace, we don’t want this to get complicated

Eddie: What?

Anne: Stacy saw you with Dan when you came to get him at the hospital last night

Anne: (Thank you for that, by the way)

Eddie: Oh. Yeah. I told her when she asked, too

Eddie: Was that bad? I mean, she already knew

Eddie: I told her not to tell anyone at the hospital

Eddie: Did I mess up?

Dan: Stacy knows? That’s great!

Eddie: It is?

Dan: She’s a very close friend! I’m glad I don’t have to hide anything from her

Eddie: You still have to hide  _some_ things :alien face emoji:

Dan: :laughing face emoji:

Dan: I’d appreciate it if Charlene never found out, though

Dan: We’re at our best in a professional relationship

Eddie: Who?

Anne: The lady at the entrance desk

Eddie: Right

Eddie: Yeah, no, I wasn’t going to tell her

Anne: Good instincts

Eddie: Thanks

Anne: Sometimes.

Eddie: Hey!!

Anne: Are you guys coming to dinner?

Eddie, all caps: WE ARE

Eddie, all caps: EDDIE IS DRIVING RIGHT NOW

Eddie, all caps: WE ARE PICKING UP A CARBON MONOXIDE MONITOR FROM THE POST OFFICE

Dan: Oh great! It’s already here!

Anne: ?????

Eddie, all caps: FOR ZIGGY

Eddie: Long story

Anne: I thought you were driving, Eddie

Eddie, all caps: WE WERE AT A RED LIGHT

Anne: By the way, I hear you guys are married?

Eddie: Oh great, Stacy told you

Eddie: Shortest explanation I could find

Eddie: Anyway, it’s true

Anne: I’m shocked you didn’t invite me

Anne: Shocked, Eddie

Eddie: Har har

Dan: Mazel tov! :party popper:

Eddie, all caps: THANK YOU DAN

Eddie: :heart emoji:

Dan: :heart emoji:

Anne: :eyeroll emoji:

Anne: :heart emoji:


End file.
